The storm winds battered from the south,
The lighthouse light grew weak and dim,
The headland like a corpse’s limb
Reached toward the roiling river’s mouth.
Tan Sirens on the shore yet loll,
Oblivious to cold and storm,
Their magic blood to keep them warm,
They wear the darkness like a shawl.
High in her turret old, arcane,
Yet lovely as a nubile teen,
Pale sorceress with eyes of green,
Looks out this night upon Cockaigne.
The city's domes and spires rise,
Svelte sorceress she broods alone,
Within her chamber walled with stone,
Cockaigne's reflected in her eyes.
Her nails are long and polished red,
Her fingers thrum the table’s teak,
She holds a mirror there to seek
The beauty of her pretty head.
She smiles as ebon curls uncoil,
Fall free and gently to her cheeks,
Like Aphrodite of the Greeks,
Her skin aglow with precious oil.
The storm begins to rage and roar,
While she, half hearing, breathes a sigh,
One crystal tear from one green eye,
Flows like the tide on some lost shore.
She turns her ermine collar up,
Against the night, against the cold,
Her fingers clutch the stem of gold
Upon her tall and wine filled cup.
In youth she sought love to obtain,
Though now her wine tastes like the dust,
She bartered love for heady lust,
Here on the shores of lost Cockaigne.
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Submission Name: Cockaigne
